


Corporal Punishment

by kryptic



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: BDSM, Consensual Sex, F/M, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 12:05:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kryptic/pseuds/kryptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to unbelievably contrived circumstances, Corvo Attano has earned himself a whipping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corporal Punishment

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for my inability to come up with a valid reason to whip a dude.

He doesn’t _mean_ to do it.  Not really.  Well, he does mean to, but how could he know that the Overseer is reaching for his cigarette lighter and not a grenade?  It’s better to be safe than sorry, and if that means tackling Campbell’s “esteemed guest”, then so be it.

His behavior has been allowed to slide too many times, the brooding High Overseer claims.  First Pendleton, now this.  Where does it end?

Apparently, the proper reply is not _“When you pry the sword from my cold, dead hands, Campbell.”_   Lord Corvo has had a rough day.

The barb prompts a spot of outrage.  The bastard, handed proof of the bodyguard’s insolence, demands corporal punishment.

But he’s accustomed to having the empress shield him from that type of consequence.  After all, he’s just been doing his duty as Royal Protector.  But just when he expects Jessamine to come to his rescue, she meets his pleading gaze and _smirks_.  Turns to the Overseers and offers him up for penance, even names the sentence herself.  Thirty lashes on the bare back, to be delivered far away from prying eyes.

Corvo stares at her incredulously, but he has no choice but to submit himself to her authority.

And thus, the deal is made.

\--

On the night of his castigation, he follows her to her bedroom dutifully.  He’s been at her side all day, as always.  Plenty of charged glances have been traded.  Every time he so much as brushes against her, a shock of heat ripples through his entire body.  One area in particular.  He’s reluctant to admit it, even to himself, but the Royal Protector is far more exhilarated than apprehensive.

Jessamine hasn’t betrayed a single sign of her anticipation, if it exists.  At one point, Corvo even thinks she may have forgotten the events scheduled for tonight.

But when she closes the door behind him and snaps at him to undress, it becomes clear that that is not the case.

He does as he’s commanded and strips immediately, setting his various belongings aside on her desk.  The dark coat and vest are folded neatly alongside his shirt, belts and pistol draped atop.  His sword, he lays with reverence along the edge of the table, easing it down as if it is forged of glass.  He is interrupted by a warm touch on his bare back and seizes up, turning to the empress with eyes wide.

She holds the whip out to him, cradled like a treasure in her pale hands.  It’s gorgeous, a polished handle of dark hardwood that strangely seems to match the frame of her throne coupled with a long, wicked-looking tail of black leather.  There’s a loop on the handle that fits so nicely around her slender wrist, and he can feel himself beginning to pant already.  He doesn’t bother to ask why she has a whip like this or who she got it from, but there’s a smile in her eyes when he glances up at her.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

Corvo nods fervently for a moment before he realizes that she’s waiting for verbal consent.  He stumbles over himself to provide it, forgetting that she prefers to be called Jessamine in private.  “Y-yes, Empress.”

The furtive grin tugging at her full lips widens just when he’s expecting a reprimand, and he can’t quite discern why.

But the smile breaks quickly and she hardens into a slave-driver, stepping aside so that he can move to his position.

“Against the bed,” she orders him, her voice already sharper than he’s ever heard it.  “Grip the frame.”

Corvo tries his best to breathe past the lump forming in his throat and stretches himself out the way the men of the navy do for a flogging.  She must be satisfied with his performance because she steps forward at once and fastens him to the bedframe.  The rope isn’t the coarse lashing that they use aboard the war vessels, but beautiful, smooth cord that feels like silk against his wrists.

He doubts the material will hold, but when he gives her handiwork an experimental tug, he finds himself held fast.  He pulls a bit harder, then with all his strength, but the damn thing won’t budge.  There’s a tiny stir in his trousers at the revelation, and damn her, she notices.  He can hear her musical little laugh, but can’t see her even at the periphery of his vision and decides to stop trying, screwing his eyes shut tight and waiting.  Waiting very impatiently.

Though he can’t see her, he can imagine her – dark suit, dark whip, high collar, hair flying.  He loves when she lets it loose and she’s done so this evening, making a small concession simply to please him.  The word “punishment” finds its way into his mind and he _shivers_ , trying to keep his body upright as his knees go weak.

Her footsteps are muffled by the carpet as she paces back to her position behind him.  He braces himself.  A few practice swings and swishes of the whip hiss through the air before she finally raises it to strike.

The first blow comes quickly and more gently than he could ever have hoped for.  She doesn’t bend the way the captains do, doesn’t give the whip an extra flourish just to cause him pain.  The damn thing still stings him, though; he can feel the weal forming across his back a split second after the leather licks his skin.  Jessamine brings the lash around again in the other direction and sears a red cross onto his flesh, and he feels his abdomen tensing with the effort to keep from coming right then and there.

Her power increases as she continues.  Warm blood begins to trickle down his back, and it soothes him.  He’s lost count of the number of lashes by now, only distantly aware of the sentence he has been mandated to serve.

The next lash falls and he almost collapses – not from pain, though of course that’s present and absolutely _searing_ , but from overwhelming pleasure.  He’s sure she can see his erection through his trousers and knows that she’s probably enjoying the spectacle.  The fabric is impossibly constricting and it feels more than a little uncomfortable, but that’s nothing, _nothing_ , compared to the fire flowing through his veins with every stroke of the whip.

She continues, and the punishment threatens to become absolutely unbearable.  The tendons are sticking out in his neck, his nails scrabbling against her four poster.  He hangs from his bonds with failing strength.  His teeth are practically piercing through his lip with the effort that he’s exerting not to scream.  Eventually, though, a strangled noise slips along with the crack of leather and though muffled by the tightness of his throat, it’s still clearly audible.

When the cry reaches her ears, she pauses, watching him.  There’s a rustle as the whip falls to her side and he knows that she’s back there with that imperious look on her face, regarding him.  Judging him.

His back, though he can feel the split skin and searing welts, is begging for her to continue.  He’s afraid, though, that she’ll misunderstand and go easy on him, because he knows that Jessamine would never _really_ hurt him.  Not seriously.  And she’s back there considering it now, wondering whether she’s pushed him too far.

But at the same time, this is supposed to be a punishment - whatever other unspoken, erotic connotations they happen to be weaving into it - and so she raises the whip again.  Corvo feels the excitement stir somewhere deep in his belly.  He gulps down a rasping breath of air and braces himself, the cords of long-honed muscles tightening as another razor-sharp lash falls upon them with nothing but a brief, airy whistle as warning.  The noise he makes this time can’t be mistaken for one of anything other than ecstasy.

She keeps going.

By the end of the volley, he’s groaning with every lash.  His cock is harder than it’s been in months and throbbing a hundred times more fiercely than the welts on his back.  If he ever intended to endure this sentence with his dignity intact, that hope has long vanished from his mind by now.

At last, she gives him one, final crack.  It manages to intersect every other wound he’s earned so far.  He arches his back and yelps, eyes screwed shut, before he goes slack again.  The sound of his panting fills the room.

Jessamine comes forward to reach around his body, hands groping, fingers sliding from solar plexus to stomach to groin.  They dip below the waistband of his trousers and tangle in the short hairs beyond, and he _moans_.  She tugs harder and he jerks backward, breathing a wordless cry for mercy.

“Thirty,” she whispers, and he gasps in response.  It’s pathetic, really, what she’s capable of doing to him.  Reducing the legendary Royal Protector to nothing but a whimpering wreck, for one.

But then her touches become softer and she traces her finger along one of his lashes and it begins to sting with no semblance of pleasure.  Without a word, she lets the knots loose and he buckles with the loss of support, bruising his shin on the linen chest at the foot of her bed.

He examines himself as if to check for damage and finds there are marks from the rope on his wrists, intricate and beautiful.  He wouldn’t mind seeing them there more often.  When he meets the empress’s eyes, he can see her gaze lingering on them.  That’s before she seizes him by the very same wrist and tugs him toward her, pointing to her pristinely pressed and folded white sheets.

“On your back.”

He can see what she intends to do now and his lips quiver with anticipation.  He remembers himself this time, calling her by name.  “Yes, Jessamine.”

That’s when she raises a hand and cuffs him across the face.  He’s still, dazed for a few moments, but not because of the pain.  She’s never struck him before, doesn’t seem displeased with him now, and for an instant he simply doesn’t understand.  Then it dawns on him and he gulps down his arousal as best he can and lowers his eyes and licks the iron tang from his lips.

“Yes, Empress.”

He allows himself a single glance at her face, enough to confirm that he’s done the right thing now.  She has a domineering look that he’s never seen her wear before, not even when she’s perched on her throne and breaking heads as of an imperial decree.  This must be special, he tells himself, and knows that it’s true.  She’s ready to have him grovel at her feet tonight, eat his own pleasure from the palm of her hand.  He’s willing to fall to his knees on the spot and do exactly that, but that’s not what he’s been ordered.  Not yet.

Corvo gets into bed and spread eagles himself.  Keeps his eyes up as he hears her undress, because every time that he glances her way, she glares a silent reprimand at him.  He looks where she tells him to look.

Finally, she comes forward and he risks a glance down while she undoes his trousers.  She’s naked (spirits, he’ll never stop noticing how gorgeous she is when she’s naked).  Her curves are perhaps not quite the same after Emily and there are a few stretch marks on her sides, but she wears them proudly, like war paint.  He’s prone to calling them her battle scars, and she looks like a warrior now.

She isn’t gentle with him.  Not at all.  The rest of his clothes are stripped off and discarded and she takes his cock into her mouth before he can even comprehend what’s happening.  The words beautiful, warm, and soft jump into his mind for a split second before they’re interrupted by _teeth_.  He grunts a little and pulls away, and she lets him.  Then her lips slide from his length and the wonderful feeling is gone all over again and he absolutely _mourns_ that loss.

There isn’t much time to lament, however, because she’s suddenly mounted astride him, teasing him, brushing so softly against his head that he’s straining to buck up into her warmth, but she holds his hips down firmly.  He’s going to be begging any second now, and it’ll be humiliating, and he _doesn’t care_.

The first whimper comes soon, without his consent.  His mouth is wide open, eyes shining.

“Please.  Please, Empress.”

That’s what she wants to hear.

She takes hold of his shaft and guides it inside of her and slides down onto it with painful delicacy.  He’s fixed on this moment with all of his consciousness, all senses void except for those which tell him of the heat and slickness and tight cincture which captures him.  A soft sigh rises from her lips like a puff of vapor.  He thinks of candles and mist and chimney smoke, but mostly her, this glorious creature on top of him.  Surrounding him.  Engulfing him with warmth in every possible way.  Like a priest, he loves her.  Like a man seeking sanctuary.

He inhales, exhales, tries to get his bearings, but there’s no hope for that at this point.  Jessamine’s power over him can’t be ignored and he arches up to press what flesh he can against hers, knowing that this is what she wants from him.  It’s his duty to beg and plead and come undone while she rides him, and he’s more than happy to do so.

When he opens his eyes, it’s like seeing a goddess.  Her hair falls like ink poured over her shoulders and dripping down onto her breasts.  Her lips are parted, but her face is like stone – more than that, like steel.  Like she can murder him with pleasure, and she will.  Like she wants him laid bare on the slab of her mattress.  A vengeful deity.  He can worship her with a scarred chest and glazed stare and bloody back seeping into the sacrificial white sheets.

If the Abbey knew.   _If the Abbey knew_.  He tries not to laugh.  Lying Tongue, check.  Rampant Hunger, check.  Wanton Flesh, Errant Mind.  Check.  However, Corvo is sure that a whipping from the Overseers wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable.  He’s heard the stories, of course.  Once again, Jessamine has saved him.

She must notice that he’s not paying attention, though, because she grabs him by the throat and pushes him back down into the pillows and tips his chin to make him look at her.  As if he would ever take his eyes off of her.  As if he doesn’t take the opportunity to stare at her every moment that he draws breath.

She adds in a long, slow grind and that does a much better job of catching his attention.  He gasps again and scrabbles to take hold of her hips, trying to pull her down on top of him, push up into her, _anything_.  Jessamine tolerates it for the moment, using the added support to bear down on him harder, bucking wildly, an avalanche.  It takes all of his self-control not to push harder, not to grasp at his own climax.  Every single movement lights a fire behind his eyelids, white hot and bursting with every thrust, and he moans her name, long and breathy.  He forces himself to look at her, connect with her.  He isn’t disappointed.

The pressure, much as she’s resisted showing it, is affecting her as well.  Her face is tilted up at an angle, framed by locks of black; her fingers are tangled into the sheets near his head as she gasps for breath.

Spirits.

She’s beautiful.

He feels her contract and tense around him, begins to strain for his own release.  His mouth falls open and abdomen tightens and just as he’s about to reach over the precipice, she stops moving.  Puts a hand on his neck and forces him down again.  The adamantine resolve is still there.

“Don’t come,” she orders.

The half-choked answer comes automatically, accompanied by a fervent nod.  “Yes, Empress.”

Then she starts again.  _Again_ , he doesn’t know if he can take it, but he has no choice.  She rides him until the bed creaks and slams in rhythm against the wall and he’s wondering just who can hear them.  He wonders how many more lashes he’ll get for being in bed with the empress.  He wonders if Jessamine will be forced to abdicate and the crown will go to the Boyles.

He’s in the middle of drafting up excuses for being caught fucking Her Imperial Highness when she catches him.  The worry in his face is transparent enough that she cups his cheek in her hand and leans down to fold it against her chest.

He forgets quite quickly about the problem of eavesdroppers.

Her lips trail kisses over every available inch of his head and chest, and all the while she never lets up on the constant circular motion of her hips.  When he reaches up to caress her in return, she seizes his wrists and pins them at his sides.  It’s not long before he gets the hint.

She devours him like a wildfire, hot enough to blister.  Her moans come faster.  Louder.  She sinks her nails into his chest to brace herself and tosses her hair like a murder of crows in flight.

Her orgasm rips them both apart.

The heat and pressure take him this time.  He doesn’t bother asking for her permission and she’s far too preoccupied to give it.  Her nails gouge furrows into his skin and rake it up beneath them.  She sinks her teeth into her lip to bite back a scream and he covers her mouth with his hand, crying out in ecstasy all the while.

When they’re finished, she collapses on top of him, panting.  She seems exhausted, even more spent than he is.  Her body molds against his effortlessly as she falls and stays down, cradled securely in his arms.  He rubs slow circles on her back and she puts her ear over the thin sheen of sweat on his skin, listening to his heartbeat.  He can’t tell if she’s waking or sleeping, but her chest heaves like she’s run for miles.  It’s hard to be a goddess sometimes, he muses.

They lay there for hours, drifting in and out of consciousness, until the sluggish bleeding of his back has stopped.  Her grey eyes are studying him when he wakes again.

“Did I hurt you?” she asks.

He says, “No.”

She isn’t convinced.

He turns on his stomach at her urging and she does her best to tend to him.  Puts salve on his wounds and kisses the back of his neck to distract him if it begins to sting too much.  As a reward for his good behavior, she combs her fingers through his hair and pecks the lightly stubbled plane of his cheek.  He purrs like an oversized cat and curls his fingers into the sheets.

It’s only a few seconds before he drifts off again, nuzzled into her pillows.  When he does, she lets him sleep, tucking herself under his arm as if she’s always been there.  Without ever waking, he stirs and tightens his grip around her, folding her in against his side.

 

In the morning, he’s ready to be seen in public again.  The marks, he wears proudly across his back and under his dark, tailored coat, and when he crosses paths with an Overseer, he _smiles_.


End file.
